Chapter 39
The Cost of Mercy
Asher
My phone vibrates against the glass tabletop, the sound sharp enough to slice through the fog in my head.
I haven’t moved since the confrontation with Violet hours ago, not really.
My body has gone through the motions—changing, pacing, and standing at the window—but my mind is still stuck on the look in her eyes when the truth finally landed.
The way the color drained from her face.
The way anger rushed in to replace whatever softness had been there before.
She looked at me like I was something dangerous she’d been foolish enough to touch.
Maybe she wasn’t wrong.
I tell myself to focus. There’s always something that needs attention. Always another fire. But every thought loops back to her, to the knowledge that if I went to her now, and if I tried to explain, it would only make things worse. Some truths don’t soften with repetition. They just cut deeper.
The vibration comes again.
Mav: We found her. Meet me in the basement.
The words snap something into place inside me.
I don’t respond. There’s no need. My pulse picks up as I stand, chair scraping softly against the floor as my body moves before my mind can catch up.
We found her. Finally. The woman who helped turn Violet into a liability.
The woman who thought hiding behind Rinaldi would protect her.
The question isn’t whether she’ll talk.
It’s how much damage she’ll try to do before she does.
By the time I reach the private elevator, my jacket is already over my shoulders, and the familiar weight of my pistols presses against my chest. I don’t need them for intimidation.
I need them because information is a currency, and people are far more honest when they believe you’re capable of following through.
Compliance isn’t fear—it’s inevitability.
As the elevator doors slide open, I catch a glimpse of Violet in the kitchen.
Pale. Still. Like the air has been knocked out of her and hasn’t found its way back yet.
The sight punches something ugly into my ribs, but I force my eyes forward.
If I look at her for even a second too long, I won’t go downstairs.
And I can’t afford that.
The elevator descends slower than it should, every second stretching thin as my pulse pounds in my temples.
When the doors finally open, Mav is waiting, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, his expression tight in a way that tells me he’s already halfway to violence. Beside him stands Nyx.
Tall. Still. Dressed in black like the shadows cling to her on purpose.
Mav’s cousin doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it’s usually because someone is about to regret something deeply. Even I’m not immune to the edge of unease she carries with her. She doesn’t enjoy cruelty for its own sake—she enjoys efficiency, and that makes her far more dangerous.
“About damn time,” Mav mutters.
Nyx tilts her head, eyes flicking over me with sharp amusement. “Boss,” she says smoothly. “So what are we feeling tonight? Something theatrical, or do you want to keep it… rhythmic?”
I huff a quiet breath. “Surprise me. You’ve always had a flair for presentation.”
She has. Last time I watched one of her interrogations, the man lost control of his bladder twice before she ever raised her voice. Fear is a language, and Nyx is fluent.
The door to the interrogation room is cracked open just enough for me to see the woman inside. Hands bound behind her back. Head slumped forward. Dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. For a split second—just long enough to make my stomach drop—she looks like Violet.
If Violet were tied to a chair in a basement, waiting to be broken.
I step inside before the thought can settle.
She doesn’t lift her head, but I can feel her attention sharpen the moment I enter. She’s alert. Calculating. Bratva, without question. I still don’t know what convinced her to work with Rinaldi—money, leverage, or revenge—but I can feel the shape of something personal lurking beneath the surface.
I pull out the chair across from her and sit, leaning forward, with my forearms braced against my knees. “You know who I am?”
A rough laugh scrapes out of her throat. “Asher Redmont.” She spits at my feet, saliva pinked with blood.
“Good,” I say calmly. “Then you know what comes next.”
She rolls her shoulders despite the restraints, slow and deliberate. “Torture. Maybe a show. Then death.” Her voice is flat. Unconcerned. Like she’s discussing the weather.
“Not yet.”
Her brows lift, just slightly, but she doesn’t speak.
Mav shifts beside me, restless, with barely contained violence vibrating under his skin.
Nyx steps forward without waiting for permission and slaps the woman hard enough to snap her head sideways.
The sound cracks through the room. Blood blooms at the corner of her mouth.
She grins.
I lean closer. “Tell me about Rinaldi.”
Nyx grips her chin and forces her face up before delivering a backhand that sends another streak of blood across her cheek. The woman blinks slowly, eyes flashing with something sharp and amused. A challenge.
I let the silence stretch, watching her breathe through the pain. “Why did you give Alessandra Moore the laced drugs?”
Recognition flickers across her face. Brief. Gone just as fast.
“Americans are soft,” she sneers. “You think this scares me? Your father was feared once. Now you sit here asking questions like a clerk.”
The words crawl under my skin, dragging old ghosts with them.
Richard Redmont’s shadow has always been long.
Heavy. I spent my childhood learning exactly what kind of man he was—and exactly what I refused to become.
And yet, sitting here and watching blood pool on concrete, I can’t help wondering how much of that choice was ever really mine.
“The Bratva trained me for worse,” she hisses.
Nyx presses her knuckles into a nerve just below the woman’s ribs and twists sharply. The reaction is immediate—a sharp gasp, and a hitch of breath—but no scream. Just that same infuriating grin, blood dripping freely now.
“That all you’ve got?” she taunts.
Nyx grabs her jaw, forcing her to look at me.
I lean in closer, my patience thinning. “Why did you help Rinaldi?”
Her lips curl. “Because your family destroyed mine.”
Nyx drives her fist into the woman’s stomach. A wheeze tears out of her as she folds forward, coughing hard, but she still refuses to scream. She spits blood again, closer to my shoe this time. Defiant even on her knees.
Nyx yanks her upright by the hair, controlled and precise, and that’s when it hits me—the sharp line of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, and the fury she refuses to let go of.
It’s Violet.
Not her. Never her. But close enough to make my chest tighten.
I clench my teeth and force the thought away. This woman is not Violet. But every blow Nyx lands sends a phantom echo through me, twisting something I don’t have time to examine.
“Tell me again,” I say, my voice steady despite the pressure building inside me. “Why did you help Rinaldi?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she snarls. “You grew up in power. You’ve never had to crawl for anything.”
Nyx twists one of her fingers back until it pops. The sound is sharp, final. The woman gasps, breath stuttering, but the fire in her eyes doesn’t dim.
Then she speaks. “My father died on his knees,” she says hoarsely.
“Richard Redmont had him slaughtered like an animal. I was a child when they dragged his body through the streets like a warning.” She laughs, broken and bitter.
“Rinaldi gave me purpose. And if I can’t have justice, I’ll take revenge. I’ll burn The Order to the ground.”
The room goes still.
Nyx steps back, waiting.
Mav shifts beside me, tension rolling off him in waves. “She’s said enough,” he mutters. “Let me finish it.”
I raise a hand. “No.”
Mav stiffens. “You’re risking everything for her name.”
“For Violet,” I correct. “She clears Violet’s name first.”
Nyx scoffs. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is tonight.” I straighten. “We turn her in. We control the narrative. Violet walks free.”
Mav’s jaw tightens, fury barely contained. But he doesn’t argue again.
I step out to make the call.
By the time Rossi arrives, the woman is barely upright. He whistles low. “What the hell happened to her?”
I smile without warmth. “Gravity.”
Rossi doesn’t laugh.
When she’s dragged out, spitting curses and promises of war, I don’t flinch.
By morning, she’ll be erased.
And Violet will walk free.
The cost will come later.